Until Sunset
by AliceUnderSkies13
Summary: Romano saw him walking on the beach. Brown hair, eyes as green as the verdelli lemons that grew on Capri.


**A/N: Just a little oneshot concerning Romano's visit to the beach. I've had this RomanoxSpain story for a while, now here it is. The poem written by Romano is NOT mine. It is called_ L'Infinito_ by Giacomo Leopardi. I just think it fits the tone of the story and is very beautiful in general. So enjoy and please review :). **

* * *

His eyelashes fluttered helplessly, and then reopened, much like the petals of a newborn flower. The delicate lashes had responded to the taste of salt, and now they stared at rhythmic waves that crashed down upon the white sands.

A beach, a place much higher than any manmade wonder, was before him. All of it, this weeping world of waterlogged semblances and the resounding piano that played endlessly in his ears; it all came together at this scene, this beach, a place where he could collect his wandering thoughts.

Waves of blue light fell soundlessly against the sand, masses of foam bathing the seashore in salt. This world felt so much more free, the smell of island nectar clinging to the air. The wind was beautiful, whispering to Romano in the silence.

Faint footsteps suddenly sparked Romano's attention. He tilted his head and noticed a shadowed figure walking along the beach.

It was a man.

He was dragging his feet in the sand, the ocean water lapping at his bare soles. The sun blossomed behind him and wrapped his body in fiery petals of light. So saddening, and so beautiful. His hair was brown.

The bright green eyes, vibrant and spacious like the emerald sea, were cast down, staring at the footprints in the sand.

Romano glared at him with a vacant expression, as if he had never seen such a creature before. He watched the man walk pointlessly across the shore, without purpose and without company. Such a fleeting moment of otherwise meaningless existence and then the brown-haired man was gone and back again in a second, pacing back the other way across the beach. He almost seemed to disappear for a few moments, vanishing into the sunlight.

Romano stared at the humanoid figure as it retreated once again in nothingness.

Who was this person? What was he doing and why was he doing it?

Romano followed him in his mind, asking questions in hope of a few reassuring words, but nothing was ever said.

Who are you? Nothing.

Why are you pacing? Nothing.

What is life, what is living? Absolutely nothing.

The man suddenly paused, trails of sand settling at him feet. A flock of birds flew past him and into the eternity sky. It was silent as the winged beings brushed the limits of the heavens, and the sun fell in front of Romano's eyes. He closed his eyelids, opening them only when the blinding light had fled his vision. The thin membrane enveloping his eyeball quivered and blinked back the drops of light that flooded his pupils.

Natural tears, born of the intense sunlight, trickled down his face. He brushed them away, the pencil clasped in his left hand scratching his cheek. A few drops of blood welled and curved down towards his chin. They fell into the white sand, becoming bright and violent.

Romano looked at the pencil, running his fingers over the carefully sanded wood. He only used Italian maple when making his one-of-a-kind pencils, and they were sharply cut, with a fine point of genuine lead.

Crazy, he knew, to use real lead, but why use anything else? Graphite was an imitation, a substance people would occasionally call 'lead,' as if they could really tell the difference.

Romano didn't want to be a fabricated manufacturer; he wanted to create unpretentious things that could be nothing but real. Besides, he couldn't write genuine poetry without a genuine pencil. Romano was a poet, a young, angry poet with a secret love of tomatoes.

He had gone to the island of Capri for a much needed vacation. Away from his obnoxious brother, away from his nagging boss, away from all thoughts of…her…the woman that had broken his heart. And there he was, a starving, lovesick poet sitting on a beach, just trying to forget.

A murder of crows suddenly cawed overhead, a human voice screaming in perfect harmony with the squawking birds.

"Help! Help me!"

Romano leapt to his feet, the pencil rolling into the sand, the stack of papers that had once been on his lap scattering like a flock of doves. He looked around, jerking his head back and forth, searching for the voice.

"Where are you?" he shouted, the crashing waves suddenly becoming louder.

"Please, help me…help!"

The words came wafting towards him like the scent of Verdelli lemons on the wind, and he turned towards the voice. Out in the water, a person was flailing, a person with brown hair.

"Him," Romano breathed. He ripped off his shoes and shirt and sprinted towards the ocean. "I'll save you! Don't worry, I'm coming for you!"

With one hand reaching out to the man's distant form, his mouth open in a determined yell, he jumped into the waves, pouncing like a tiger.

The water was not turbulent, in fact, it was quite still. Liquid sunlight beneath his body, Romano swam on, drops of water clinging to his skin. The man came up fast, much closer to the shore than Romano had thought.

His brown hair was stuck to his forehead. His bathing suit, a deep scarlet, shimmered in the refracted light. Eyelids slowly sank, covering bright green eyes. One pale hand, a ring fitted over the middle finger, was disappearing beneath the water's glassy surface.

"No, wait!" Romano screamed.

He dove under, kicking his legs as hard as he could.

There he was, curled up like some hibernating sea creature from another world, his toes and eyelids twitching in the darkest part of REM sleep. Romano moved closer and closer, parting the watery curtain with strong hands.

"Hold on!" he pleaded, his voice nothing but a burst of sunlit bubbles.

Reaching, his hand was reaching for him, spanning the oceanic universe, across the stars and into Aquarius' endless depths.

Finally, he made contact.

The man's feet touched the sandy bottom, the green eyes opened, and his hand grabbed Romano's.

Romano swept him into his arms and made for the surface. At last, he saw it, the shafts of sunlight that cut through that un-oxygenated world. His fingers could touch it, could feel the air particles dancing in the atmosphere, when the man suddenly spoke to him.

"Thank you."

His voice was crystal clear in his ears, as if he were crouched over Romano, whispering softly. An illusion of flailing brown hair, and the young poet was entranced. Together, they stopped rising and were suspended in the water, bubbles of air floating around them. Suddenly, the need to breath did not seem that important.

Romano stared at him, and he smiled. His sweet little smile called out to Romano from beyond the darkness of the abyss, the ocean no longer a place of fear. The white sand and lemon leaves were dusted aside, the man's voice becoming softer.

"Thank…thank you."

His words created the resistance within Romano's eyes, driving back the pull of the current as he grabbed his hand once again.

"Please, please save me," the man whispered.

The pleading voice brought the blood to Romano's face, and he reached up towards the sun.

Together, they broke the surface, gasping for breath as the seagulls cried overhead. Their faces stained with tears and salt water, they huddled, trying to keep one another afloat.

"Are you ok?" Romano asked, still coughing.

"Huh? Oh yeah, I'm fine. The water, it just pulled me down. Haha…" His eyes squinted in the harsh sunlight.

The flock of seagulls began descending, landing in the softly rocking waves. A few landed next to Romano, one even came up behind and pulled at his hair.

"Hey! Stop that!" he shouted, flailing his arms.

The man laughed. "Relax, man, it's just a bird!"

Romano dropped his arms, his face turning red. "Whatever! It was trying to tear out my curl, ok?" He reached through the water and grabbed the man's arm. "Let's go back to shore already. And a thank you would be nice. I just saved your life!"

"That's right, you did!" the man said, smiling. "Thanks, amigo. I owe you one."

Romano felt his face grow even hotter. "Enough flattery, just hurry back to the beach already."

"All right, all right. Slow down, muchacho. You're a feisty one aren't you?"

"I-I am not feisty!" Romano shrieked.

The man laughed. "You're touchy too. Now come on. It's a beautiful day for a suntan; we should be on the sand, no?"

"I guess…"

"So you agree!" He grabbed Romano's hand and started toward the seashore. "Let's go, amigo."

"Wow, I wasn't even that far out."

"I know," Romano said, drying his face with his beach towel, "You're a pretty pathetic swimmer. Here." He offered the man the towel.

He took it, smiling, and wrapped it around his shoulders, patting his neck dry. The brown hair, slick with sea salt, stuck to his shining skin. With fingers of flame, the sun made him shimmer like a vibrant ruby.

His arms raised, his eyes closed, he stood like a bird with its wings ready to soar. The sweet summer wind tousled his hair and ripped the towel from his shoulders.

His eyes suddenly opened and slid across Romano's face. He looked at Romano, who was standing with a pencil in one hand, a piece of paper in the other, his mouth slightly open.

"What are you staring at me for, amigo? Have I got something on my face?"

"It's n-nothing," Romano stammered, tucking the pencil behind his ear, stabbing himself once again in the process. "Ow…" Red drops fell onto the sand.

"Oh, you're bleeding. Be careful," the man said. He came forward, wiping away the blood with tanned fingers.

"Thanks," Romano muttered, trying to avoid his emerald gaze.

"What is this?" he asked, pointing at the sheet of paper. "Are you a writer?"

"It's none of your business!" Romano cried. "I, uh, I'm not just some idiot dreamer who sits around writing sappy poetry all day! I have a job, I make lots of money! This writing poetry thing…it's just a hobby!

"So you're a poet?" The man's eyes lit up. "You think you could write me a poem? I've always wanted someone to write me poetry."

Romano started. He had never been asked to write a poem for someone. Typically, his intended audience was an audience of one, himself. But this man, there was something about him. Maybe it was his brown hair or his bright green eyes…Romano didn't know. One thing, though, resonated inside his mind, an idea for a breathtaking poem.

"All right, I'll do it if you stop pestering me. I'll write something for you, uh…" His voice trailed off.

"My name's Antonio," the man said.

"Antonio." The name was sweet, like a ripe tomato. His lips curved into an awkward smile. "I'm Romano."

They sat beneath the grove of Verdelli lemon trees, Romano writing furiously under the island sun, Antonio talking about the ocean and the remarkable things he saw as his eyes wandered across the sky.

A jet plane flew over, then a group of hot air balloons drifted mistily through the air. Flocks of black and white birds called out to one another, serenading the sky with a thousand winged ballads.

Antonio found a red flower lying in the sand. He picked it up and tucked it into Romano's hair.

Romano didn't even notice, he was so entranced by his outpouring of words, but then a petal broke off and landed on the page, and his hand stopped.

"Uh…what is this? You messing me with me, Antonio? You think you're being funny?!"

"Relax," Antonio said, laughing. "I just thought it looks nice in your hair, that's all." He noticed the other wildflowers growing around the beach and an idea sprouted up like a tender young shoot. "Keep writing, don't let me distract you."

Romano just nodded absentmindedly, his pencil flying.

Antonio raced trippingly across the beach, kicking up fine white dust that looked like snow. Soon, his arms were full of flowers. With nimble fingers, he weaved and braided them together, creating a floral crown for the 'Poet Laureate of the Lemon Trees'.

When he was finished, he smiled and placed it on Romano's head.

"There, fit for a king!" he said.

Romano was silent, watching as the petals fell around him. He thought of his brother, always overshadowing him at everything, and he thought of that woman. She had left him for another man, a better man.

He sighed. "I'm anything but a king."

"No, Romano, you are a king." Antonio knelt down in front of him, inching closer and closer to his slightly surprised face. "You're a king of words, amigo." For a split second, he looked toward the horizon.

The sun was setting.

"Um…"

"Show me what you've written," Antonio said, leaning even farther forward. His forehead bumped against his, and Romano felt his face redden.

"Read it to me, Romano. I'm sure it's good."

"Ok, well, it's not that good, but here it goes…L'Infinito…

"_Always dear to me was this lonely hill,  
And this hedge, which from me so great a part  
Of the farthest horizon excludes the gaze.  
But as I sit and watch, I invent in my mind  
endless spaces beyond, and superhuman  
silences, and profoundest quiet;  
wherefore my heart  
almost loses itself in fear. And as I hear the wind  
rustle through these plants, I compare  
that infinite silence to this voice:  
and I recall to mind eternity,  
And the dead seasons, and the one present  
And alive, and the sound of it. So in this  
Immensity my thinking drowns:  
And to shipwreck is sweet for me in this sea."_

Romano cleared his throat. "So, what do you think?"

There was silence.

"Antonio?"

He looked and saw nothing but the empty air before him. Night had finally come, the sun was gone. A blanket of dark blue covered the sky.

"Antonio? Where are you?" he called, looking across the beach, out into the darkening sea. He stood up, and suddenly felt a breath of wind sweep past him.

Felt, he felt the wind, as if it had had a body. Soft skin, tanned fingertips on his arms, then a light sensation on his cheek, as if a butterfly was kissing him.

"Antonio?"

Words, broken up by the evening breeze, whispered, "Thank…you. Remember, you are a king..." And then the wind gust was gone, leaving nothing but a swirl of sand and a few teardrops suspended in the air.

Romano clutched the poem in his hand, letting his own tears roll down his face. They struck the page, smudging a few of the words.

But he did not care.

Already a new idea was forming inside his mind, a poem about a young writer, sitting beneath the lemon trees, and the brown-haired man who brought hope back into his heart…the man who vanished at sunset. _  
_


End file.
